They Say That If You Get Bored

Somewhere In The Heart Of Experience There Is An Order And A Coherence Which We Might Purprise If We Were Attentive Enough, Loving Enough, Or Patient Enough.

Frost In January Minus 20 For A Week. Dead Birds Frozen On The Branch—they Fall With The First Thaw Like Ripe Fruit—death-ripened. We Shall All End Like Them—just A Stain In The Snow.

I See Artists As A Great Battalion Moving Through Paint, Words, Music Towards Cosmological Interpretation.

Everyone Loathes His Own Country And Countrymen If He Is Any Sort Of Artist.

A Critic Is A Lug-worm In The Liver Of Literature.